Thrusters
by division-ten
Summary: Prompt fill: Peter's going to learn about his dad's genes, whether he wants to or not, as he comes to the realization of what his mother meant by "daddy's an angel". Because-ow!-growing wings out of your-ow!-back at thirty-four leads to some seriously weird consequences.
1. Birdbrain

_**Quick word all: I am blind. I have a beta reader on AO3, but said beta has a full time job and kids to raise. If you see a typo, miss-spelling, etc., please let me know. Thanks.**_

* * *

"Ow. Effing **_OW_**." Peter's back hurt like ten ways to hell. He felt it in his shoulders, running down the length of his back and it was pure pain. He wondered if this is how Rocket felt all the time; Rocket never actually said anything, but odd amounts of painkillers went missing from the medbay on a regular basis, and Groot's hand usually strayed south to rub circles on Rocket's back after he sat upright for long periods of time.

Talking to him would be as good a start as any, if he could get past Rocket's wicked sharp tongue. And claws.

Peter rapped quietly on Rocket's door, knowing most of the team was asleep, other than Groot, who was up in the cockpit by the music choice, and Rocket, who, probably from his mods, only needed to sleep two hours for everyone else's' six-to-ten.

Rocket opened a crack in his door. "'S barely three hours into your sleep cycle, oh Great and Mighty Star Lord," he snarked. "What can I, a humble servant, do for you at this ungodly hour?"

"Back. Pain," was all Peter could sputter out; he swore he had something much more eloquent in his head a minute ago.

Rocket's whiskers fell. "All right, wuss. Medbay. I'm going to take a look."

* * *

Unfortunately, unlike the rest of the ship that had modifications for Rocket to use (ladders, catwalks, pushbutton doors, etc), the medbay was simply split in two- a small table and tools to use on Rocket, and a larger one for use on Peter, Drax, and Gamora's injuries. Rocket, meanwhile, probably from having to fix himself so often, had proven the most competent in its use, despite having to fumble with the oversized equipment and too-tall examination table when taking care of Gamora, Peter, and Drax, in that frequency of need.

Which led to the current situation- Peter, shirtless, lying on his stomach, with Rocket sitting awkwardly on the small of his back, poking around at his shoulder blades with a handheld X-ray scanner.

"Well, I've got good news and I've got bad news," Rocket finally said, as he carefully removed himself from Peter in a way that wouldn't scratch him. Peter groaned a little as he sat upright. Rocket's warm form on his lower back had actually helped, and the fifty pounds suddenly missing brought the searing pain all the way back down to his ankles.

"Just give me the bad news, Rocket," Peter replied, yawning.

"You're going to be in for some serious hurt for at least another year, Pete."

"Wha? Why?"

"Well, this is what you get for not letting me tell you the good news first," Rocket said, crossing his arms over his chest.

"And that would be?"

"I know what species your dad is. Or was. And you're gonna like his genetics."

"What, I'm going to enjoy being in excruciating pain?"

"Well, yeah, wait no, not the pain bit, but what your body's started growing. Infinity Stone might have set it off, or your humanity may have made it slower. You should have started growing them five or ten years ago otherwise."

"Grow what? Am I half Groot?" Peter rubbed his shoulders. Being half Groot was not his idea of good genetics, and made no sense with what his mother had said. His mom had told him his dad was like an ang… oh shit.

"Am I… am I growing **_wings_**?"

"You've got a pair of coracoid formin' under the skin, so yep. Start taking some calcium supplements. Go lighter on the weight training. You'll never get off the ground if you're too heavy. And stop sparring with Drax and Gamora. Your bones are starting to hollow out; in a month or so one good sucker punch is gonna shatter them. And try not to sleep on your back."

Oh joy, Peter mused. This was going to be interesting.

* * *

It was maybe a week later that he realized he couldn't wear his favorite tight grey shirt anymore. The bones in his back ad started protruding out enough that they made two sharply defined lumps in his back. He could feel musculature when he touched, but couldn't actually get them to move. And they were **_sore_**. He switched to loosely fitting Xandarian style high-collar shirts. Gamora remarked about the sudden change in fashion, but nothing more. Rocket wasn't talking; if Peter wanted to tell the team he was some kind of alien birdman, that would be on his terms, not Rocket's.

Rocket was helping, though. He'd given Peter a potent concoction to drink before bed, and it was some odd combination of mineral supplement, painkiller, and knockout drug. And sometimes, he'd wake to feel a warm, fuzzy presence on his bare lower back, still working on some sort of project by a single ball of Groot's bioluminescent spores trapped in a bottle. "I'll get you some heating pads the next stop we make," Rocket had grumbled, tail swishing. "But for now, I'll do. Don't tell Gams I told you this, but I did the same for her when her spine implant had been snapped in half."

Gamora had already told him about that herself, but Peter grinned all the same. It helped, it really did.

* * *

Three weeks later and Peter's wing development was no secret to anyone. His physical size hadn't shrunk any, but he definitely felt lighter on his feet. The scale said that his mass had shrunk by at least twenty kilos already, and he'd probably be down twenty or thirty more before it was over.

And yet, he was eating as much as Drax, with no signs of stopping.

"Peter, your choices of sustenance are going to need to change," Drax admonished. "Although I do not know by how much, as you are only half Retribe." Retribe. That word still didn't fit right. Peter had finally looked at pictures and read a bit about their culture after Rocket's fifth insistence.

They were a pretty isolated race of birdlike aliens, about six feet tall with monstrously massive wingspans, along with more humanoid arms. Their legs were still birdlike and squat, with talons that Peter wasn't growing- at least not yet. But the wings and feathers grew in puberty (and their bones hollowed out then too); the kids were ugly and kinda pinkish-naked with talons before their transformations around the age of twenty- so, until Peter's body told them otherwise, the team ran under the assumption that he'd only get wings and probably feathers. He liked being able to wear boots and his thruster packs, and those Retribe talons didn't look conducive to either.

How his dad had been on Earth without anyone flipping their shit was beyond Peter.

Drax and Peter had done a little research on diet, at Drax's strong insistence. He needed the right minerals and enough protein to build the new muscle, bone, and feathers, or his wings would be deformed. Getting ahold of a Retribe anywhere, or even decent reliable internet information, was a bit of a challenge, but the suggested diet was pretty similar to what Rocket usually ate- raw nuts, seeds, small mammals, and fish, in quantities about three times what Peter was used to consuming.

**_Eating like a bird_** was a simile Peter decided to scrub out of his vernacular.

Raw fish was disgusting. Peter imagined how bad his dad's breath must have smelled. Gamora noted his discomfort, and started showing Peter some tricks to reducing the horrible fishy aftertaste. A little vinegar, some femented bean sauce, and time.

Peter was starting to be okay with this.

That is, until the morning he woke up and rubbed his eyes to remove the crust after a good night's rest. Something didn't feel right. His face was….

Smooth.

He touched where his eyebrows should be. Nothing. No eyelashes. A small pile of auburn graced his pillow and the top of his head felt…

Holy shit, he was bald.

He checked his arms, now sleeping shirtless since the protrusions on his back had grown to about thirty centimeters in length, thick enough muscle at the base that he could start moving them. Lo and beold, no hair there either. Or "**_there_**", for that matter.

Peter had to bite on his lower lip to not completely pass out.

His medical bracelet, created by Rocket to alert to any serious changes in his body like heart rate, oxygen levels, or blood pressure, sent an alarm blaring through the ship.

Of course Gamora had to be the one to answer the call. Of course she did.

"Peter, take my… what happened to your face?" Gamora asked, half in shock and half laughing.

"ITHINKIHAVECANCERNOWTOO," Peter screech-sputtered, as Gamora rushed over, grabbing him by his midsection, quickly loosening her grip as she felt his ribs give far too easily. Peter was becoming very, very fragile.

"Cancer?" Gamora asked, the small smile on her lips gone and genuinely concerned. "Cancer doesn't cause hairloss."

"When mom had… when she did her hair fell out…"

"That may have been a side effect of the treatment, no? Doesn't Terra use radiation poisoning to stop cancers? That would easily cause hairloss. Your body is just getting itself ready to grow feathers."

Peter breathed out.

"We can have Rocket check you for radiation poisoning if it helps, but I think this is just part of your package," Gamora said firmly. "Come on, you need to eat. Unless you just want a pair of limp protrusions on your back instead of actual, useable wings."

Peter had Rocket check after breakfast anyway. The only thing he said was "Calmus startin' to grow in your skin, bud," before breaking out in laughter. "Peter, man, you're makin' **_quills_**."

"You should have some down on ya by the end of the week. I'm putting you on thyroxine so you'll molt and get your adult feathers a bit quicker. You also need to spend some time under one of Groot's sun lamps, or I can add some gonadotropins, too."

"I don't understand half tat sentence, but I do trust you."

"Pills it is."

When Peter's first layer of down started to grow, it was grey and fuzzy. It wasn't auburn, but it was temporary and Peter wasn't really running out trying to hit on women. But Rocket was suddenly acting different, licking his muzzle, and slapping himself.

"What is **WRONG** with you?!" Peter demanded, ad he barreled through the ship after Rocket after the third time this morning, dropping more down on the deck as a few bits of harder, adult orange feather started peeking through the molt.

Rocket looked sour. "You smell good," he finally explained. "There. Damn. I said it. It's out. You smell like **_dinner_**. And it's driving me absolutely nutty."

"That's it, I'm doing this the right way and going off those hormone pills," Peter replied. "If, and only if, you still are a lunatic when I'm off, will I take them again. I don't need my best friend's crazy good nose making him think I'm Thanksgiving."

"Done," Rocket said, before scurrying as far out of Peter's new bubble of bird-pheromones as he could. He heard the comms shudder to life, and Rocket's voice. "I'm goin' into hidin' for a few days. Peter, once you've been off for a week, find me."

"Peter pulled angrily at the soft gray fuzz on the top of his head and stormed back to the galley.

Hungry.

And the small fuzzy creature known as Rocket qualified as _small mammal_. At least Peter felt a little better about the nagging feral voice in the back of his mind.

He sent the hormone supplements down the incinerator. He didn't need to speed this up for convenience; his mind wouldn't keep up otherwise.

* * *

Another month passes. Rocket and Peter have both become accustomed to the situation, to the point where both make "om nom" gestures to each other at dinner. Gamora calls them children. Rocket points to Peter and reminds them all that he's basically a twenty-year-old Retribe, which, with their long lifespans, is basically a child. Peter brandishes a fork and says he's thirty-four. Rocket flings a vegetable from his spoon like a catapult.

Repeat.

Occasionally, Drax will pluck the vegetable midair and eat it, but for the most part, they've worked up a routine.

The protrusions, and most of the rest of Peter's body, are now adorned with hilariously gaudy orange, yellow, and brown feathers. Shampoo isn't a good idea anymore, and while Rocket's got fur, the process of grooming and preening is similar enough that he teaches Peter how to clean. Peter isn't sweating anymore, and everyone (Rocket especially, because he does it too) laughs when his feathers puff out when he's too hot or angry. Peter thinks he looks like a human Big Bird, and he's starting to be okay with it. He's even learning how to control how puffed out his plumage is. Turns out he lets off a pretty potent cocktail of pheromones when he does.

Peter doesn't shave anymore, he plucks. The feathers on his face aren't essential to flight, he read, and they can go down the incinerator without affecting his later ability to fly. His bodyweight has stabilized.

At this point, there are only two things left for him.

The first big one is doorways. He's not sure how to posture himself to fit, and awkwardly walks through sideways. Groot's a lot more perceptive than people realize, and as he notices Peter's wing parts growing out big enough that it's becoming an issue, he starts growing a very strange set of protrusions of his own. Rocket doesn't seem to mind, it's a new perch, but peter notices that Groot's growing what Peter has, in wood form. Groot tries moving them the way he's seen Peter able, trying to squeeze himself through the airlocks on the ship. A few days in, Rocket comes barreling up to Peter in the cockpit, (which Peter now laughs at because the English pun is too much) and drags him down to the bulkhead. Groot is grinning.

"He's figured out the best way for ya to squeeze through doors, birdbrain," Rocket explained.

Groot turned his back to face Peter, and folded the protrusions high on his back, before tucking one under the other. It takes Peter some effort, he needs to spend more time on the physical therapies the Nova corps suggested, but he manages to copy the motion.

It's a bit painful; Peter really needs to start on those weird exercises, but his part-wings are folded in enough that he can walk back out through the bulkhead without hitting himself. He hears the crunch of branches being torn off. Groot's probably pulled out the extra limbs.

"What did you do that for?" Peter heard Rocket yell as he sauntered back to the cockpit, wings folded neatly behind his back. "I liked that foothold!"

* * *

It's been almost a year now, and Peter looks at himself in the mirror. The plumage is still ornate, but not as gaudy. Peter was typically the distraction anyway, so it actually didn't affect his combat as much as he thought it would.

He now slept the way Retribe did, with his almost four-meter wingspan, he didn't have much of a choice; the wings partially folded behind him, he leaned into a nest of his own appendages. Peter's favorite old pillow was stolen, and with his keener sensed knew the culprit was Gamora.

He didn't need it anymore, anway.

What he still did need, however, was learn how to fly.

Unless he could hunt down a xenophobic bird alien, this was something he'd half to figure out on his own.

He couldn't extend his wings out completely anywhere on the ship aside the cargo bay, but Peter stretched them out as far as he could in his little cabin.

Soon, he thought. Soon I won't need my thruster packs anymore. Rocket had been begging for a jetpack; he thought about tinkering with them to make one for him.

He'd still wear the boots though. They were too cool not to.


	2. Tsuritama

Peter grabbed two tufts of stiff orange-brown feathers on the crown of his head and pulled sharply.

This was _**stupid**_.

"Peter, you are likely to be the only Retribe people are going to meet in their lifetime. If not for you, than at least for the sake of not being a complete disgrace to your heritage, you should try some cultural activities." Drax's words were heavy, and sharp.

"Has nobody ever heard of cultural appropriation?" Peter bit back.

"What?" Rocket yelled from above. He'd rigged himself up with cables (correction, Groot's vines) upside down from the ceiling, screwdriver in his jaws while he tooled around inside the light fixture overhead.

"Cultural. Appropriation. The idea of taking aspects of someone else's culture without context and just using it. It's a bit disrespectful. I may have the genetics, but I don't speak their language, didn't grow up with their food or culture, nada. I'm not going to start for someone else's benefit. Doesn't mean I won't read about it or learn, but I'm not going to suddenly start wearing the collar thing around my neck or hanging red lanterns over my nest to scare off the nightbeasts."

Drax looked on, surprised. "I did not realize you actually did some research."

"I _**do**_ need to know about my anatomy. I'd like to not die because I ate the wrong thing or something."

"I mean to say, I did not realize that you continued to look for information beyond that point. You seemed quite unwilling to even look up a proper diet for yourself at first."

"Well, for the first time in my life, I know a little about my dad. Of course I'm going to do research."

"Which actually brings us back to our current predicament. Peter, we are running very low on edible foodstuffs for you. We need to go acquire more and we are not exactly near any sentient planets at the moment. I'm loathe to give you ration blocks because they contain castor oil."

"Rocket can eat them."

"Peter, I can drink _**booze**_. You can barely get three sips down before you're on the floor," Rocket said, as he swung himself off the ceiling. That was pretty much the only thing Peter discovered he missed. He and Gamora both were now on the sober train, and it was a horrible kiddie ride.

Retribe parties were probably boring as hell.

"So what's this cultural activity you were suggesting?"

"Fishing," Drax said simply. "I know of a nearby uninhabited planet with an excellent assortment of aquatic life."

"Dude, that's not a cultural activity. That runs right back to my previous qualification of needing to know my own anatomy."

"You will not preform the rites before the hunt?" Drax was genuinely surprised.

"I'd sooner follow your lead and do whatever you do, than follow a tradition that has no meaning to me, if that's what you are asking," Peter replied honestly. "And if we're low on food, sooner the better. I'll start thinking up ways to serve Rocket if we don't stock the cold storage."

"Drax, set a course for wherever you're thinkin'. Now," Rocket barked, and Drax lifted him off the floor and onto his shoulder, ignoring Rocket's half-annoyed whines.

"Very well," Drax replied, a bit disheartened.

* * *

Peter ripped through a piece of lagomorph jerky, staring blankly into space. Drax had told them all it would take another two hours before reaching their destination, and, as he rarely took the wheel, Peter just sat on one of the window benches and marveled at the empty cosmos before him. He felt someone sit down next to him and turned. Gamora, sipping from a cup of hot tea.

"You know, I think he's trying to have you carry the Retribe culture with you. I'm not even sure how many of Drax's people are left. He feels obligated."

"Yeah, but, there are plenty of Retribe. They're just xenophobic assholes," Peter replied, as he ripped another piece of jerky in two and swallowed it down. His feathers fluffed a little, and Gamora smiled. "And I have a culture. Earth, and Ravager."

"Ravagers don't have a culture," Gamora stated, flatly.

"So, celebrating someone's day of joining with five drinks and a round of arm wrestling isn't a tradition? Or getting one gold coin after every catch, that everyone melts down at the end of the year, and uses as their own private allowance? We had traditions, too, Gams. You probably had something with your sisters too, something that was yours and yours alone. _**Those**_ are my traditions, and my people."

Gamora smiled, and ruffled Peter's feathers lightly. "I wonder what the Ravagers will think, seeing you like this."

"They'll probably try to pluck me- and Yondu will stick some on his dashboard. Otherwise, they don't really care what you look like, if you can work. I mean, did you see Rega?"

"The woman working the cafeteria?"

"Woman is **not** the word I'd use to describe her," Peter said, shuddering, feathers puffing out further until he looked like a giant ball. "Steamroller, more like."

"I'll talk with Drax, if you wish," Gamora said, as she drained the last of her tea and stood up.

"I'd… appreciate it. Getting through to him is still pretty hit or miss for me."

* * *

They touched down at the edge of a bayou. Peter took one look outside and at the temperature readout on the dash and stowed his boots, rolling his pants up as high as they could go. From the knees down, he was featherless, an artifact of the taloned, scaly feet a full Retribe possessed, skin as smooth as a baby's without all the hair he once had.

He couldn't really fly; he'd need somebody to teach him and he was really afraid of falling (the whole one-wrong-move-and-whoops-shattered-bones thing made him a lot more cautious about certain activities), but he was getting pretty good at 'parachuting', standing at the top of the gangway of his ship and spreading out his wings to their full extension before jumping down the platform. He had the gangway beneath him if he didn't catch a proper draft, but it was better than no practice at all. He landed with a soft _squish_ in the gunk-mud and heard claws scraping on the deck behind.

"Nice landin'," Rocket said, looking out on the vista, then down at Peter's legs, caked in mud halfway to the knee. "Looks like I need to screw my suit," he mumbled before scurrying back inside. Drax came out next, carrying bins and ice, while Gamora slid down the handrail on the heel of her boots.

Groot carried more buckets, and trudged out to a grassy outcropping a bit further in.

"Guys?" Rocket squeaked out, head peeking out the hatch.

"Sup?" Peter asked, turning around, careful to not get his wings tangled in a low bush at his side.

"I'mma ruin my clothes stepping into that goo, and, uh, I planned to swim for fish…" he started. "But uh, promise ya won't laugh?"

"Rocket, I'm a giant orange chicken shin-deep in swamp muck. If I'm laughing, it's because we all look like idiots right now," Peter replied, lifting one foot out of the mud with a _shwump_ noise to show to Rocket.

Rocket snorted, and trudged down the gangway on all fours, sans clothing. His metal implants gleamed off the sunlight filtering in the trees, and he spread his claws out over the mud.

"Pounds per square inch," Rocket muttered, gingerly hopping across the mud without sinking too deeply, before reaching the actual water and jumping in. Peter followed; glad to get the moss and other goo out from between his toes as he hit the cool water.

And quickly tried to stand up. Feathers and water were a very, very bad idea. The water seeped in and he was getting too heavy, couldn't lift himself out, choking under the water, when he vaguely felt hands pulling him up and out.

"This is why you no longer take a shower, Peter," he heard Drax say, almost through a hazy bubble.

Three sets of hands were heaving him up onto the grass, stretching his wings out to their full length in the sun.

"No swimming," Gamora said sternly. "You get too wet, you get too heavy."

"I am Groot," came from Groot, low rumbly and concerned, as he carefully stretched out Peter's now watersoaked wings. Peter tried to lift them to flap out some of the water, but with the swamp they absorbed, they were too heavy to move.

He thought he could be a real superhero, someday soon, when he learned to fly. The fact that even a few pounds of water drenching his feathers and pants was enough to knock him to the floor was a sobering reminder of just how much he could really lift. He couldn't carry Rocket, now, he knew that much, but some water?

He closed his eyes, and let the warm sun dry him off, drifing into an uneasy half-sleep. Occasionlly, he heard a rough "I am Groot," followed by a splash, or Gamora snap "Rocket! You're getting bite marks all over that carp," with a muffled "Foooccch you Omoora,"spit, and "Easier than usin' one of those damn fishin' poles."

Eventually, he tested his wings again, flapped a few times, and shook out the last drops of water before standing up.

"Did you rest well, Peter?" Drax asked, concerned.

"Eh," Peter commented with a shrug and a ruffle.

"Maybe this time you will heed my warning about culture. The Retribe rely heavily on fish to survive, live on a planet as swampy as this, and yet, can die submerged in only a few centimeters of water from getting too wet with fluid. You should learn how to fish as they do."

"You know how?" Peter asked.

"From what I've read, yes. Let me show you."

* * *

The sun began to sink in the sky, and Rocket, now shaking himself off and sunning himself in the last rays in Peter's former spot, watched with curiosity as Drax showed Peter how to stalk in the water, bobbing his head and arms down in quick motions and pulling roughly on Peter's wings as a counterbalance until Peter felt comfortable at not falling over, flapping them himself or spreading them in unusual contortions to keep his balance as he moved his way through the shallows.

They'd caught more than enough fish hours ago, while Peter was still out. Gamora had already returned to the Milano to prepare sashimi for dinner, and Groot was off somewhere finding edible fruits and leaves for side dishes.

But Peter needed this lesson, one Rocket had learned so long ago.

Peter needed to know, not just how weak he was, but how strong. And as Rocket heard the plopping noise of each of Peter's successful quarries, first via scooping with his arms, and eventually giving into his non-human side like Rocket had done, bobbing with his head and grabbing large catfish with only his teeth, Rocket smiled.

Know your limits, know your strengths.

Plop. Another fish in the bucket.

Splash. Peter's feathered head only, under the water, with his wings extended fully behind to keep him from tipping.

Plop. Another fish in the bucket as Peter flicked his whole body back but his wings forward.

Plop.

Plop.

Plop. Plop. Plop.

Six fish in a minute.

Peter lost his strength; Rocket knew even _**leaning**_ on his shoulder at the console could fracture a bone.

But he'd more than made it up in speed.


	3. Pretty Undercover Job

_**Possible Triggers: forced cross dressing, slavery, very lightly implied abuse (to an OC).**_

_**Nothing worse that chapter 6 of Rocket Raccoon, except with people-smuggling instead of robot-slavery sales. Still, rather warn than not.**_

_**If you guys think it's too much, I'll bump this up to M.**_

* * *

One good thing came from Peter's transformation. He wasn't recognizable anymore. Rocket, Groot, Gamora, and Drax, being the last (or nearly-last, or only) of their kinds made them noticeable, even if they were simply another random uncommon alien on the streets of Hala or Xandar before.

Peter, on his own, was a rare species but, as long as his mask wasn't up, he wasn't Star Lord. And, even if it was, nowadays, his respirator style had become popular enough that wearing it still didn't draw eyebrows, other than him being a Retribe.

And Nova really wanted him to keep it that way, for good reason. The Guardians were too big, and having all of them be immediate attention-grabbers defeated asking them for help in certain matters.

If they needed Peter for a public appearance, they usually did one of two things. Usually, they'd grab a body double from the Corps, Jethra Tusc was the right height and build- hair and face didn't matter because he put on a wig and wore a copy of Star Lord's mask, while Peter hid himself somewhere nearby and talked into a mic wired remotely to the respirator's speaker. Tusc didn't even have to worry about lip-synching, because, frankly, he stunk at it. And Rocket was always complaining that he didn't flail his arms enough when he 'talked'.

On rare occasions, Peter would pretend to be his old self himself, if it were a controlled environment set up by Nova. It was weird for him to put a stocking cap and wig on over his puff of feathers, and have someone else help him into a red hide jacket that carefully snapped shut in the back around his wings (the latter becoming less unusual; he did have clothes that covered his upper torso for cold weather and the vacuum of space- Drax was usually the one to help him strap them on). They'd seat him in a chair right against the back curtain of the studio, where he could slide his wings discreetly into the back scenery, nobody the wiser.

It was surreal, being so famous yet being the only member of the group that could walk right in the middle of Xandar without being mobbed. But for a mission like this, it really had its uses.

"Boy, where the hell are you?"

"Triya's Café, numbnuts. Table for two. Eating cake."

"Well shit," Yondu said, as he lowered the comms in his hand, looking at Peter, already seated at the next table over, spooning a mound of truffle gateau in his mouth. "Thought you was your dad."

Peter leaned back in the metal chair, stretching out both his arms and wingspan. "Really?"

"If I didn't know better, boy, I'd say you were that asshole."

"Good to know," Peter replied. "So, what was his name, anyway?"

"Hakkaw, Vyzel Hakkaw," Yondu replied. "But I'd **really** recommend you don't try finding him. Or using his family name-"

"Wasn't planning on it," Peter answered, showing another spoonful in his mouth and pointing it at Yondu after pulling it back out, clean.

"-Or impersonating him," Yondu finished.

"Eh, well…" Peter trailed off. He knew lying to Yondu would be bad for his health in the long run. "I was planning on that, but maybe it's not a good idea?"

"Not unless you want fifteen whole solar systems out for your blood, no."

"That bad, huh?"

"Makes me look like an angel, and I don't even got no wings like you do."

"Wings I don't even know how to use," Peter replied sourly, as he dug into the last of his dessert.

"Boy, I taught you to fly once, I can teach you again. Your asshole of a daddy ain't the only Retribe I know."

"You'd… do that?" Peter asked, waiting for some additional demand, warily.

"Have that rodent of yours make me a spray bottle of your pheromones and gimmie some of your molt and I'll get you lessons."

"The hell you do with that?" Peter asked, startled. He knew people acted a bit… funny on the ship when he started letting them off, but held always been too afraid of what they might be for, immediately turning the air scrubbers on overdrive in his ship. If they were **those** kind of scents, he'd rather not use a chemical cocktail to get his crew to like him. That's just low. And Drax and Groot making advances on him gave a shudder. Drax still thought of his wife too fondly, and would probably snap Peter like a twig, and Groot… was… a twig who could **also** snap him in half.

Gamora, on the other had, was hotter than hell, but uninterested, and Rocket? Peter had certainly had more interesting bedfellows, but bedding anyone was only happening of all parties involved consented, and knew exactly what they were consenting to. Period.

"Retribe feathers are the best for makin' arrows, how you think I met yer dad?" Yondu, said, swiping the final bite of cake off Peter's plate before he could take it, still contemplating his pheromones. Yondu wasn't really a sweets guy, but it was the last of Peter's food. "And if you don't know what your own pheromones are good for yet, boy, well, let's just say don't ever start puffin' 'em out in enclosed spaces unless you're ready for the consequences."

"They're not… like… Love Potion #9… are they?"

"They're a hallucinogenic. Potent, non-lethal, non habit-forming. Retribe's best defense mechanism. Make the person who inhaled it feel like they're in their happy place, while the feathered buggers flee."

"Does it… help with nightmares?" Peter asked quizzically.

"You're immune, kid," Yondu answered. "But if you're asking about spraying your team of effed-up doo-gooders, it might. Let me know how it goes," he added with a smirk.

"Thanks for the info," Peter finally responded, before standing up and shaking out his wings.

Yondu patted him on the back, a gentle tap instead of the brunt smack Peter had been used to as a child. "Now, you commin' along quietly, slave-boy, or am I gonna hav'ta cuff you?"

Peter rolled his eyes and held out a wrist. "You'd better get at least 40k for selling me," he scoffed. "I'm **rare**."

"Boy, I'm the best negotiator this side of Keystone. If I don't get at least 150, I ain't doin' my job."

* * *

One exchange of Peter, changed into simple felt boots and broadcloth pants with a traditional crossed pattern to fit the part, for 172,000 units and some piece of junker machinery later, and Peter was sitting manacled on a slaver craft. The boots were uncomfortable, and locked around his ankles, with fake talons sticking out the end. The slavers had carefully pulled Peter's wings and feathers, but didn't bother unbinding his feet, fearing a face full of (admittedly fake) destructive claws. Peter wasn't wearing socks inside, so he could flex his toes a small amount, puppeteering the fake claws slightly. He couldn't grasp with them, but the bindings made it look as though the boots were designed to prevent a mauling, anyway.

He was sure his feet would be rank by the end, and would probably demand at least a grand from Yondu to go and hit up a spa on Taspis. Maybe two, depending on how long it took to get some evidence.

But, damn did Yondu know how to negotiate. The money he got was dirtier than Rocket's wrench set, but Nova did give Yondu permission to keep a clean equivalent, as they took the unit strips he received from Torbach and pulled them from circulation while they tried to test them for narcotics, opioids, and any other illegal substances they might be able to book the Wyteil Consortium on above slavery. They needed enough counts to book the ten known leaders, plus as many more as they could case against the number of 'suppliers' like Torbach.

Gamora would be getting ready on the ship, slathering herself in enough makeup to make her look Krylonian.

And, while the slavers were good in checking Peter over for hidden devices, the tracker Rocket had him swallow wasn't ferreted out. Custom make, custom frequency.

He was **good**.

The Milano was somewhere nearby, Peter knew, and Gamora was coming to buy him back, once they followed the ship and discovered the black market Wyteil sold their stock from, but it didn't change Peter's unease. He could be snapped in half or….

"You think we should declaw the birdie?" a Badoon security guard asked. Peter tensed, but not quite for the reason they thought.

"Hah, lookit the pretty bird. Scared right outta his pretty little plumes."

"We should put him in a skirt 'n sell him as a girlie, I heard the birdies are the same except the plumbing," replied the first. "Girl'l sell for more."

"Don't take off his shoes, he'll claw out your eyes, for one, and two, he's in very good condition. Let the buyer declaw his feet if they want to so bad," Torbach, the perpetually irate, small-time smuggler, shot back. "But get him in some silks, and pierce his ears. I had the same idea you did, Prenja, which is why I didn't mind that blasted Centurian's price. I can get at least four times that from some buyers if they think he's a chick."

Peter sighed. Yondu and the Nova Corps had warned him they'd probably try to sell him as female, but neither Yondu nor himself expected the humanoid makeover. Retribe in pictures were impossible to distinguish by gender; both sexes wore the same burlap clothing and simple wooden bracelets, with a yoke around the neck after reaching adulthood. "Look, if I put on some makeup and jewelry, quietly, can you pass on the piercings?" he asked. "I'll even pull out my beard-feathers."

Torbach stormed to an inch of his face, hot breath right in Peter's eyes, "You don't get to make the rules, **cargo**."

"I'll also fight back and probably break every bone in my body," Peter replied, calmly. "Nobody is going to pay 700 K if they have to hospitalize me after purchase."

Torbach snorted loudly, grabbing Peter by the neck, but only barely so. "Fragile sunuva… Fine," he grumbled, before sending peter and a guard down to the wardrobe. Ugly, ripped-clothed slaves had a place in the market, but Wyteil sold special stock.

* * *

Peter didn't get to see what his face looked like, other than knowing one of the slavers had powdered him for at least an hour in that stupid chair after he'd been told to change into a frilled, soft skirt and long silk scarves.

Well, he'd gotten at least half his wish for a spa treatment; they'd given him a manicure. Thankfully, nobody touched or went near his fake talons, choosing to cover the ugly boots under mounds of skirt fabric.

The metal bangles on his wrist jingled against the manacles; Peter rubbed his wrists uncomfortably as he sat back in the holding room with the six other people- **slaves**\- being shuffled down to the changing room one at a time. A young female Ailum sat next to Peter, fur freshly shampooed and trimmed, clasping Peter's left hand between her paws.

"'S gonna be okay," Peter cooed to her.

"You make a pretty girl, mister," she whispered back quietly. "I hope whoever takes you is nice."

"You've been through this before, haven't you?"

"Mmmm. Miss Biggs just died, and her husband didn't like me, so he sold me again. Nobody's been bad, but I miss my sis."

Peter carefully stretched out a wing to cradle the girl. Hopefully Gamora had enough money to buy off more than just him. He knew they could probably fight them at the market, get all of the people on the ship safe. But it would mean breaking up one little slaver ship, not the entire Consortium.

Another day, he thought, as he rubbed the girl's fuzzy head with the tip of his wing. Another day.

* * *

Of **course** they were going to put him in a gilded birdcage. They probably pulled it out just for Retribe they sold. Peter sat uneasily on the swing inside, counterbalancing himself with his outstretched wings.

If they'd made him look feminine, Peter sure as hell hoped he looked gorgeous.

He sat uneasily, watching the crowds of people pass. A leering Xandarian. A smartly-dressed male Kree; Peter could tell by the fabric that he was aristocracy and trying to hide it. A Badoon who looked at Peter once and huffed off. A Krylonian woman was there, but she was too short to be Gamora, and far more interested in the Ailum, anyway.

An hour passes. The Kree gentleman eventually rounds back to Peter's cage, and has a few words with the guard. The voice is familiar…

Rocket's?

No, it was too clean, dignified sounding, and Peter was just exhausted. The Kree makes a joke with the guard, and they both laugh. The cage door is unlocked.

This isn't good. Gamora's still not here, neither is anyone who could have been Drax or Kraglin, her backups.

"Be a good girl, and let the man see you," the guard admonished, as the Kree is let into the cage with Peter.

The Kree purses his lips, and trills out a series of whistles. "You allright, boy?" Centurian. It's Yondu, talking from the Kree man.

"What are you doing?" the guard asked, sternly, and the Kree opens his mouth, back turned to the guard and facing Peter. The flaps don't match, but it's a common artifact of translator implants converting the audio but not changing visual perception of the speaker.

However, the Kree is mouthing out the English lyrics to Cherry Bomb while speaking, "I cannot say hello to my new concubine in her language?" Not Yondu this time. Then again, the audio was definitely some high-class strata of Kree. Several people were probably sitting around a mic speaking for the mole they ended up choosing.

"No, go ahead," the guard replied. He wasn't the same one Peter had on the ship, which meant he probably didn't know Peter was male, or would have tried to make some excuse to stop the Kree from talking to Peter directly.

"Rocket's the one who speaks Kree like a freakin' diplomat," came Yondu's Centurian trills from the mole's mouth. Centurian, as a nonstandard language, couldn't be picked up by translators, but they were still all taking a risk that someone at the market actually understood it. "Just play along, OK? Reply in whistles so I don't look like a damn fool. Also, you look fabulous. I want a photo before you change out, or I'm putting your bounty back on the market."

"Eff you, Yondu," Peter trilled back.

"Nah, I'm good for now," he replied, as the Kree started touching Peter's wings, gently pulling on the feathers and testing the joints.

"She is young," Rocket said, out of the Kree's mouth.

"Not a day over twenty-two," the guard replied.

"You mean to say you have taken her before she has learned to fly," Rocket responded. Thanks for rubbin' it in, buddy, Peter thought.

"Well, I…"

"I will not pay one-hundred-thousand units for a Retribe who does not know how to fly, plebe. Get me the seller, posthaste."

Peter was trying very hard not to laugh.

"Yes… yes sir," the guard replied, head down.

Torbach was called over. "This young lady here," Rocket said, coldly and sternly, "is twenty one, is she not?"

"Of course. A flower, in her youth," Torbach replied, dripping with sleaze.

"Then she has not yet learned to fly," Rocket replied.

"She is fully mature, I assure-"

"But she is not twenty six. Mature or otherwise, there is a season and ceremony before one learns to take to the skies. So tell me, did you lie about her age or capability?"

Torbach reddened. "I…"

"Furthermore, it is quite telling that you have gone through such pains to paint this one, and miss so crucial a feature. Females have feathers growing from within their ears. Small, hard to see, certainly, but the only visible difference between the sexes."

"Well…" Torbach was sputtering.

"**He** is still a fine specimen," Rocket finished. "And I am less picky than most. But if you think even a third your current price is fair, I assure you that I will personally have my family look into how you acquire your wares and avoid the middleman entirely."

"Two-fifty, then?" Torbach offered.

"That I will do. Come, **sir**, let's bring you home and get that wretched paint off of you. It does not suit you in the least."

* * *

In what Peter remembered as the longest walk of shame of his life, the Kree gentleman guided Peter through the dizzying maze back out of the spaceport they'd docked in, to a small Kree craft, and out to space. Once they'd cleared radio distance, the Kree tipped back his head and laughed.

Correction: tipped back **her** head and laughed.

"Gamora?" Peter asked.

"Cherry Bomb did not give it away?" she inquired. "It is my call-sign, no?"

"I need a photograph before you wash off all that blue," Peter replied, chuckling, as he watched Gamora fish out a small device from her throat.

"Only if you let us photograph you before you clean yourself up," Gamora replied.

"Deal. I don't even know how stupid I look anyway."

"There's a mirror in the head, if you're curious. Just hold on, because I'm putting this vehicle in hyperdrive in a few minutes."

Peter walked the three paces he needed to get to the small head at the aft of the vessel

Odin-on-Frickin'-High.

Peter was **hot**.


	4. The Space Between

"That went better than expected," Rocket said, several hours later, as he furiously scrubbed some kind of abrasive pad over Gamora's face, dipping it in a foul-smelling clear liquid when it turned too blue, before resuming removing the cinema-grade cosmetics. "Sit… friggin… still, Gams… this'll go faster if you just let me… ugh… you wanna do this and miss a spot? No? Then SIT STILL."

Peter had excused himself to the head to de-gunk himself. Unlike Gamora, who used stealth, Peter often used disguise to entertain a mark, and this wasn't the first time he'd have to clean himself off with makeup remover. Although, it was usually ageing makeup, or skin colorants like what Gamora was having stripped from her face with extreme prejudice by Rocket's abrasive hands, attitude, and cleaning pads. Peter had pretended to be Yondu's son on several occasions, and remembered having to sit still for a prosthetic frill and three hours of blue.

Peter spent a half hour at the sink, wiping away the goo and powder on his face. They'd plucked off all the feathers on his face- the thick lines he left for masculine looking eyebrows and the few he left as 'scruff' for a beard and sideburns were gone. They'd regrow eventually, but he felt a bit naked without them, touching the bare skin gently. It reminded him of mom too much to not keep _**some**_ feathers on his face. Thankfully, they left his "hair", or he would have really been freaking out in the mirror.

He sat on the toilet, stripping off the clothing he'd been given, then carefully regurgitated the plastic key to unlock the bindings on his shoes. Freedom, finally. The tracer he'd eaten properly with food, and would come out the other end in a few days.

The metal bangles care off too, and then Peter remembered the polish on his nails. Rocket probably had some acetone lying around in his workshop; he'd do that after he cleaned himself off. Legs over the tub wall, he pulled down the shower nozzle and sprayed from the knee down, soaped, then rinsed. Toweled them off, wrapped it around his waist and carried the discarded garments and jewelry out of the bathroom, bracelets clinking in his hands. The scarves were real silk, six of them, he could fence them if Gamora (or anyone else on the team, really) didn't want them. The bangles were well wrought, but definitely some cheap alloy. If Gamora didn't want them or Rocket couldn't use them in some machination of his, they were as good as scrap. The skirt was long and voluminous, and powder-blue, the exact opposite color of Peter's plumage. They could probably dismantle it and use the fabric for rags, if nobody wanted it for clothing.

Once a thrifty Ravager, always one.

Peter returned to his own cabin, and put on a pair of boxers, a pair of pants, socks, boots. He still needed to clean the rest of himself off; he felt disgusting from being on the slaver ship and hadn't preened in at least two days.

Peter carefully cracked his back, leaving the clothes and jewelry from the slavers in a pile on his floor, then made his way down to the lowest deck. Finally, for the first time since Yondu picked him up in Xandar, he had enough room in the cargo bay to spread his wings out completely. He dragged a chair to the center of the room, and pulled out a bottle of alcohol disinfectant, sitting down and putting the tip of his left wing in his mouth to start cleaning.

And tasted fur. Not Rocket's.

It was the little Ailum girl's. Peter had gotten off easy; for him, it was almost like a hilarious little street performance; they even had a glossy little picture of Yondu holding him in a bridal carry in the galley, along with a few of Peter and Gamora before Gamora decided to evict herself from the chest binder she'd forced herself into. They couldn't have sent Yondu or Rocket inside, the former for obvious reasons and the latter might have been kidnapped by the slavers himself and sold as an exotic pet- and they needed someone who could really fight or flee if things got sour.

Telling Peter that she'd simply be a Krylonian, and not a disguise more complex (making her look like the Hygar Baron, who'd been imprisoned last week for enslavement? Really?), was to keep him from looking for her before she knew it was safe to take him home, as well as documenting enough with the audiovisual implant in her left eye. He had about forty hours of method acting, some cheap excuse of a theater production. The other six on that ship…

He spat out tan fur on the metal plating of the cargo hold and resumed cleaning.

* * *

"What are we doing now?" Peter said, as he came up from he hold to the galley after he finished preening, followed by spraying himself with disinfectant. Preening cleaned him, but he didn't really _feel_ clean until he smelled like soap.

Baths. That was another thing he missed, up there with booze. He could kinda-sorta take one if he held his wings up and only let the water run up to his waist or so. Not the same though.

Interestingly enough, he thought punching out assholes would make that list, but he could still do that. The bones from his elbow to fingertip had actually strengthened, not hollowed. Same with the knees down. Everything else was a fragile hollow mess, but it made sense evolutionarily to keep those parts of the body able to withstand some form of beating, especially when Retribe fought by swooping and raking opponents with their talons. Peter thought about designing some boots with pop-out knives when he learned how to soar.

"You look as though you have walked through a location that is very unappealing to you," Drax replied, smiling. "Hell, perhaps?" He actually was getting the metaphors thing.

"Considerin' what happened, uh, I'd call that a 'yeah'," Rocket replied, as he was packing up the kit Nova lent them for Gamora.

"Any acetone in there?" Peter asked, holding up a hand, nails facing out.

Rocket laughed, chittering loudly. He'd gotten comfortable enough around them to be a lot less self-conscious, especially considering he didn't feel like the only beast on the team anymore. "I gotcha covered," he replied, pulling out a small bottle and some cotton balls before hopping up to his booster seat at the galley table. Peter slumped into one aside, and Rocket started furiously cleaning the yellow polish off his nails. Peter could do it himself, it wasn't like trying to remove makeup off of someone who probably never wore it before, but Rocket always seemed to need to do something with his clever little hands and Peter was just…

Burned out.

He really could use a spa day on Taspis. Or a month.

"Pete? Hey, hey, man," Rocket said, poking him gently with a claw. "Was askin' you for your other hand. You all right, birdbrain?"

Peter shifted in his set and held out his other hand, feathers ruffling irritably behind. Rocket resumed scrubbing.

"Not… not really," Peter responded, after a silence, the only noise on the deck was the background hum of the electronics and Rocket's nails against the plastic container as he poured out more solvent. "I kinda just want to hide somewhere for a few days."

"Did they do anything untoward to you?" Drax demanded, bellowing.

"No, I threatened to fight back if they did."

"Hah, really? They bought that? With your 'talons' bound 'n all?"

"Yes, because I reminded them that it would probably break every bone in my body," Peter replied, coldly. "Shattered merchandise isn't good for business."

Silence.

"Would you have followed through on that threat?" Gamora asked.

"Probably. I've had to dislocate my wrists and shoulders a whole bunch of times on jobs. I've broken a few bones before. Three of my teeth are synthetic."

"You should relax for a few days. This seems to be bothering you, emotionally," Drax said, breaking another long round of silence. "What say you, tree?"

"I am Groot," Groot replied, curled in a corner (as much as he could) against a heat exhaust.

"Yeah, we're dumpin' you off somewhere for a few days," Rocket replied, wadding the used cotton into a larger ball and screwing on the acetone's bottle's cap. "Go… do whatever is you do when you're not driving us insane. We're stealin' your ship and be back for you in a standard Xandarian week."

"Mutiny?" Peter asked, mildly amused.

"Eh, more like temporary insanity," Rocket replied.

"I have some personal business with Torbach and his crew," Gamora said, simply.

"Do you now?" Peter questioned, dripping with sarcasm. If he had eyebrows, one would be raised, probably close to the ceiling.

"An unfinished transaction," Drax responded. "One that would be better negotiated if you were not present."

"I can take a hint," Peter smirked. "Just drop me off on Taspis. I'll go pack a bag."

Peter flapped his wings as he stood up, blowing Rocket's exposed fur out into a hilarious case of bedhead, and turned heel to his cabin.

"So which one we goin' after first, 'Mora?" he heard Rocket ask as he pressed the airlock release to his bunk.

* * *

Peter thought being on a beach on Taspis, fruit punch in hand, lying face down in a deck chair sunning his feathers would feel better, but it didn't.

For one, he couldn't wade further than his knees in the pink lapping waves of the Parian Sea, couldn't use the hot tub, and the masseuse had no idea of what to do with him, apologizing profusely for almost cracking a rib. And Groot was always freaking stalking him (hee, stalk, he needed to remember that). Of course they weren't going to stand him on his own.

For another, while the thought of Drax ripping out Torbach's spine, or Gamora slitting his throat, or Rocket exploding and/or clawing his face to shreds did make him feel a bit better, it didn't change the fate of the slaves on his ship. They'd have been long sold by now, scattered to who-knows-where.

Day two in Peter's little would-hve-been-slice-of-heaven-under-normal-circumstnces cabana and a knock on the door around noon local. "Room service," gruffed a voice.

Rocket?

Groot got to the door first, so Peter couldn't see past. But he didn't need to. Rocket had climbed Groot and curled around his neck like a living stole, low purr and all.

"Thank Odin, I'm going stir crazy here," Peter moaned from the bed, before forcing himself up.

"Hey, just a pit stop for lunch, Quill," Rocket replied. "But we brought you some houseguests. Hope ya don't mind."

Peter's now improved hawk-like hearing alerted him to the footpads of another shoeless mammalian creature walking on the wooden floor, followed by the clinking noise of nails on wood and the familiar sounds of two distinctly different pairs of boots- Gamora and Drax were entering the space along with…

Two of the women from the slave ship?

The Ailum girl, upon seeing Peter, break-ran for the bed and jumped; Peter barely had enough time to dodge the tackle hug by rolling to the floor.

"Waina, don't," Drax admonished, after she'd settled on the mattress, bouncing a little. "He weighs less than you do!"

"Sorry," she said, embarrassed, ducking her head under her paw. She was soft and fuzzy, catlike, and a good head taller than Rocket. She could have crushed Peter, and he wasn't sure weather to laugh or bemoan the situation. The bow tied around her neck loosened and came undone, and she sloppily retied it.

He went with laugh.

The other female, a young adult Silurian, peeked her bluish-green scaly head out from behind Drax shyly, flicking her forked tongue in and out of her mouth. "Anolise," she said, quietly. "I can't believe the Guardians of the Galaxy found us."

"Neither can I," Peter replied, straightening himself.

"Oh, Nova ID'd the asshats that bought up everyone from Gamora's audiovisual feed," Rocket chirped brightly from his perch. "These two were bought by Xandarian empire citizens, so they were the easiest to retrieve. Arrest warrant, wasn't much excitement. The other four should be pretty interestin', though. But we all figured you needed some R&amp;R after that. I know I would have been… ahem," he trailed off, fur puffing out in irritation. "Eh, never mind. Let's all get some grub, huh? I could go for one of them drinks with a little umbrella in it."

"Yeah… sure," Peter replied. More than the idea of lounging around on a beach, the prospect that his team was going to track everyone else down really showed him how far they'd all come, and how much they knew seeing others in a tight spot bothered him.

Waina slipped her paws into Peter's hand again. Peter rubbed the top of her head with his wing tip and took them without hesitation.

"So, where's the leader-guy?" Anolise asked as they locked up the cabana and followed a stone path to one of the resort's outdoor restaurants. "Star Lord. The guy with the mask."

"Eh," Peter replied. "He's probably on another mission." If _**lounging on the beach**_ could be called a mission.

"What's your name, mister? Waina asked, as they got a table for seven and sat down at the deck patio.

"Peter," Peter replied honestly. "Honorary member, of sorts," he added with a grin.

Anolise squinted her eyes and held up her claws in a picture frame shape around Peter's face. "Man, you know, if I were as famous as Star Lord I'd probably pretend to be Xandarian. Then I'd totally sneak onto slave ships as myself since I'm so rare and nobody would know."

Rocket snorted a little.

"You are aware that the Nova Corps are still on a hiring spree, especially for talented, perceptive individuals such as yourself?" Drax said, as he flipped though the menu. "Rocket, I cannot read Xandarian, can you assist?"

"I'll look into it," Anolise replied. "But, y'know, something signed by Star Lord, authentic, would probably fetch a high price. I've got nothing but the clothes on my back and a dead family to bury," she said nonchalantly. Plucky lady.

"I'm sure something can be arranged," said Gamora with a smirk. "We'll have you two stay with Peter until we retrieve everyone else and I'm _**sure**_ he can call Star Lord for you and ask for a favor."

"Can't go swimming in the ocean, saltwater."

"Neither can I," Peter replied, "so natch. We'll keep busy, won't we, Waina?"

"Mph," Waina replied, having stuffed her face with bread from the basket as soon as it hit the table.

Scratch that. Peter was on a mission.

_**Babysitting**_.

* * *

"We will return as soon as we are able," Drax said, after the meal. "Enjoy yourselves until our return. Someone from Nova will be here tomorrow to provide you with official documentation; Anolise, some appropriate work-studies will be offered if you wish to take them."

"I'll keep an eye on them, Drax."

"That sounds unusually painful," Drax replied with a knowing smile, before he, Gamora, and Rocket headed back to the drydock. Peter, Groot, Anolise and Waina waved them off, before heading back to the cabana, Waina's full belly catching up to her as her ears began to droop.

"Anolise, can you carry her?" Peter asked, awkwardly.

"So, Mister Weak Lord can't even pick up a kid, now, huh?" Anolise snarked with a light smile.

"Bird," Peter replied, shrugging. "I can't even carry the smartass."

"Can't carry yourself, then, huh?" She scooped the dragging Waina into her claws and kept step with Peter, who unlocked the door to the cabana.

"Let's get her into a bed, yeah? Then you and I can do something if you want."


	5. The Real Double-Crossin' Deal

Torbach was sleeping when it happened; alarms blaring wildly on the Wisecracker as some strange noises and vibrations under the deck jolted him from his bunk. He lifted his girth out and pressed the internal comms button by the head of his sleeping area.

"_**Dorna, the frig?!**_" he screamed. No answer.

And then the door to his bulkhead blew clean off and landed in a smoldering clatter half a meter to his right.

"Mornin' beautiful," came a raspy voice, compact silhouette slowly becoming visible through the smoke of the explosion. "Time to meet the reaper, eh?"

Torbach didn't even have the chance to pull out his blaster before 10,000 volts of pure electricity surged through his body, knocking him out cold, sound of a small chittering animal burned vaguely in his subconscious.

* * *

Rocket wasn't the only one dealing with a howling juvenile in severe pain. Peter was trying to figure out exactly what to do with Waina. She slept- or some facsimile thereof- on the futon in the cabana living room, whimpering and tossing. _Not too bad a previous life my feathered ass_, thought Peter, as he perched over her bed on the fourth afternoon of babysitting duities, feathers ruffling behind as he maintained balance.

He was tempted to try what Yondu had told him his pheromones could be used for, but not on a kid, and certainly not without permission. Or a doctor. A vet, perhaps? (By which he meant for himself, not for the girl). He wasn't even sure what kinds of remedies- herbal or synthetic- would even be safe for her to ingest; checking the net was good and all, but she was still a child and he wasn't as good at properly dosing this stuff like Rocket or Drax.

So he warily kept an eye on the girl, hoping when Nova came tomorrow they could tell him about her physiology, or better, bring some pre-dosed medications for his new ward.

"Peter?" Anolise whispered from the doorway of the bedroom. Peter flopped back, flapping his wings for balance. He almost couldn't even remember what it used to feel like, or how he once looked, as he passed his avian reflection in the mirror by the door.

He slowly rolled it shut behind him, and went to the kitchen for some tea.

"What's up?" He asked, craning his neck back at Anolise as she studied him carefully.

"Why do you pretend you're a Xandarian?" she asked.

He swallowed, as he pulled two mugs down from the kitchenette's only cabinet. "That's… well, that's not exactly what's going on, Anolise," he finally answered.

"What is?"

"Well, first off, it's not Xandarian. It's Terran- human- from Earth. Third planet from Sol."

"Never heard of it."

"Far as anyone knows, they don't have FTL yet. Barely made it past their moon. I was abducted as a kid."

"Same here."

"How long have you been shuttled from slaver to slaver?" Peter asked, his ruffling feathers giving away the distaste of the question.

"Nine Kree-standard years maybe?"

"Well, Terrans look enough like Xandarians. Weaker physically, but more resilient to disease. Learned that when everyone on my ship got the Pochi flu but me."

"You were on a ship full of people with one of the most virulent strains of influenza and you didn't get it?"

"Not even a cough."

"No wonder why I saw some Terrans sold off to a science facility six years ago…" she trailed off. Peter blanched. "Sorry," she added. "But still, why fake it? So you don't get bothered by fans when you go out for real? How do you hide your wings, they're huge?"

"I'm only half Retribe," Peter replied, pouring the steaming water into two glasses before dropping in the tea bags. Groot had left them- but at least they were store bought and not made from his bark as they usually were on the ship. "Didn't hit puberty until about a year ago. So that was me dancing off against Ronan… but Nova's been using a body double for me since I started… ahem" Peter flapped his wings behind him for emphasis. "Heck, I didn't even know what my dad was as a kid. Almost didn't believe my mom when she told me he was an angel."

"So you just don't want to make yourself a bigger target," Anolise concluded.

"Pretty much," Peter replied. He put the glass of tea to hips lips. "Uh, so, I'm done here, right? How do I pull her out? Help here?" Peter yelled at no-one in particular.

"Jus' stop flappin' your wings for a while and it'll dissipate on it's own, numbnuts. Read the damn data entry next time," came a gruff voice, from nowhere.

"What's…?" Anolise asked, looking around.

"You're in jail, duh," Peter replied, sipping his tea. "We left Taspis like six days ago. Had any good dreams in the past two weeks?"

"Two...?"

"Sense of time goes funny when you're around Retribe pheromones too long," came the ethereal raspy voice. "Peter's been spraying you every couple'a hours."

"Do not worry, it will not remain in your bodily system for long once he has stopped. Your time will be concerned elsewhere, anyway." This voice was deeper, booming.

"I… what?" Anolise demanded, as she slowly watched the cabana melt away, her own light dress replaced with prison scrubs.

A very unhappy looking Gamora stared at her from the other side of the glass in her cell.

"Enjoy your incarceration, wench," she spat, before turning heel. "And don't worry about reporting to your boss. Rocket blew him up with extreme prejudice."

Anolise Dorna, Bylan Torbach's right hand mate and mole, had been bested by a goofy feathered idiot. She kicked the glass angrily and huffed in a corner, waiting for a Nova officer to come interrogate her. Twenty six years ago Torbach had contacted Yondu about selling the Terran kid for science (_**Xandarian, ain't worth shit**_, he'd said, but Anolise didn't _smell_ Xandarian off the kid), and she'd committed his scent to memory for her boss- Silurians aged very well- so that when he got a little older and maybe not so tight under the Centurain's wing they could just steal him off and make a fortune shipping him to the Keystone Quadrant.

Imagine her luck when she'd smelled that same scent two weeks ago on a man who looked to be an even rarer species. He wasn't Terran either, she'd thought, just a juvenile Retribe that the vile pirate had been passing as Xandarian to deflect attention. She _**knew**_ he hadn't been Xandarian.

Was the bit about him being both a lie? If it were true, she could have been rich and killed Torbach herself, go find some quiet corner of the universe to bask in her riches. If only fate were so kind, she thought.

Fuck Peter. He wasn't worth the units.

* * *

"Look, all I'm saying is, you didn't need to leave Waina with me, too, while you got the other victims to Nova custody," Peter said, irritated as he walked back to the ship.

"We needed to make it less obvious. That's why we left Groot with you too." Gamora lightly rested a hand on Peters shoulder.

"Yeah, well it was jack AND shit for a vacation, let me tell you. I had to go back and spray the little mole every three hours- and that included waking up in the middle of the night."

"You are sleep deprived," Drax noted. "You should actually rest now, knowing everyone is where they should be."

"Yeah, I guess," Peter mumbled.

"What was that, hero?" Rocket ribbed, elbowing him gently in the shin.

"…didn't even get a massage…" Peter grumbled, as he climbed up the gangway. "Wish I could spritz myself to sleep or something." Feeling like a zombie, Peter almost literally rolled into his cabin and into the bunk.

Yondu owed him. Big time.

* * *

Peter slept thirteen hours straight that night, an undisturbed rest in two weeks since the da'ast slave ship. He awoke, stretched, and followed the scent of eggs and frybread up the stairs to the galley.

Covered in flowers and fake killi-killi trees. Groot came up from behind him and dropped a staw hat on his head.

"The… what?"

"Sir Star-Dork, what shall you be having for breakfast?" came a gruff voice from below. _Rocket? In his Nova uniform?_ Peter thought.

Gamora came around from the side and presented Peter with a bright orange drink in a fancy glass on a platter, also in Nova uniform. Granted, the glass was obviously stolen from the resort Peter didn't get to enjoy, and the platter was just one of Rocket's calibration mirrors, but the effort was present.

"What are you…?" Peter sputtered out.

"Making up for lost time," Gamora replied, serving him a plate of Drax's heavenly-smelling breakfast. "You've got a slot reserved in the sauna in thirty minutes, a mud wrap, and a hot stone massage before lunch."

"_**When did we install a sauna**_?" Peter asked, almost choking on the drink.

"When I realized that lettin' the emergency exhaust steam valve release for about an hour won't corrode the engine room. Just don't stay down there longer than that, yeah, birdbrain?" Rocket replied.

Peter laughed.

"Damn do I owe you all one."


	6. Soar

Peter stretched his wings wide, sitting on a large rock looking out at the expanse of wild pink grasses. Rocket, in a gas mask and gloves, carefully tickled Peter around his pheromone glands, milking him like a snake.

"Okay back there, bud?"

"Might need t' take a break soon, it's startin' to irritate my skin," Rocket replied, muffled through the mask.

"You want some on you?" Peter asked, craning his neck backwards.

"Couldn't hurt," Rocket said, as he sealed up the collection instruments and, only when everything was stored, removed the gloves and mask, allowing himself a whiff. "Hey, if Yondu's already got a Retribe friend, why does he need your hallucinogenic?"

"He said something about building up a tolerance. A few of his men came from pretty rough backgrounds; some of them found the spray helpful but eventually their nightmares faded, others… still need it, but it's becoming less effective. Every Retribe supposedly lets off a slightly different mix and… geez, you're out fast." Rocket was already sprawled out in the field beside him, mouth open, tongue lolling.

"Mph…" Rocket mumbled. For the most part, the mind of the user supplied a good dream, or a pleasant continuation of wakefulness, but there were ways of inciting something specific, especially since Rocket's imagination for coming up with something good for **_himself_** was often pretty limited. Most of his incited dreams, Peter discovered, after Rocket told him what it had been like, were incredibly mundane. Fixing the ship. Listening to music in the cockpit. Shopping in a bazar, but everyone treated him with basic decency. **_Basic decency?_** That was the best he could think of for himself? If Peter could spray himself, he'd be fighting crime with Captain America or at the front row of a concert. Or hanging out on the porch with his mother…

"Look, here," Peter mumbled into Rocket's ear, kneeling over him and cradling his head with the crook of his arm. "Wherever you are, if you're on the ship, you've landed. If you're on the street, follow your nose. There's a really strong, really sweet smell. Lots of pastries. A bakery." Rocket had a massive sweet tooth, but usually, due to his small size, even a single slice of cake could make him throw up. "You've got as much money in your pocket as you need, an empty stomach, and nothing in this bakery is going to make you sick. **_Go nuts_**."

He didn't mind the trail of drool pooling down to his wrist as he comm'ed Groot to come get them.

* * *

"I've finally got a full bottle for you, Yondu," Peter said over the comms. "And I've been saving my molt. I don't know what kind or how many feathers you need, so we just have a small bag you can sort through."

"Perfect. O'acca's coming 'round in the next week or two with trade goods, so why don't'cha pick some neutral ground? 'N, if ya have the chance or time, syphon what'cha can for 'im."

"Does he go around selling his own pheromones?"

"Among other things, like native jewelry, but the spray's pretty lucrative. Legal, non-habit forming, et cetera, et cetera. Hospitals pay top dollar for it as 'n alternative for those 'llergic to standard anesthetics."

"How **_much_** top dollar?"

"More than regular labor, less than what you make for Nova. Prolly better for ya to not do it, lest ya want t' be outta spray when ya need to knock out an asswipe on a job. He don't have no fightin' skills like ya."

"Yeah, I've noticed sometimes I don't have enough. It seems like it takes a while for me to produce more," Peter replied, eyeing his crew, just out of the comms view. Everyone asked him for a spritz from time to time, some more than others.

"A bottle that size goes for about 100,000 or 200,000 units, 'pendin' on if your customers have built up a tolerance," Yondu said, sighing. "But ya do the math of how long it took to make an' how much ya earn doin' dirty work."

Rocket, just out of reach, counted invisibly off his fingers. "Not worth it."

"Like I says."

"So… a good place to practice…"

"Ya want somewhere with flat spaces, standard gravity, 'n such."

"Where we are right now fits that description," Gamora piped in. "We're in the Helios sector. I can send coordinates."

"Six standard Xandarian days from now suit ya, boy?"

"Sure."

* * *

Peter went back outside, feathers whipping in the light breeze, and angled the gangway.

Might as well just camp out here and practice, he thought, as he jumped from the top and glided down to the bottom, running back up and practicing over and over for hours. Rocket looked out one of the portholes with interest.

"I change, and I'm a resentful asshole," he grumbled to Groot. "But, damn, Peter just rolled with it- **_look at him go_**." Rocket's ears perked in contentment. "Thanks for the buffet, asswipe," he added with a whisper, as he watched Peter glide, over and over for hours.

* * *

"Os," O'acca chirped, friendly greeting of 'hello'. He was of frighteningly similar build to Peter, with more androgynous facial features, a stiff corset/tube-top type torso garment (that didn't restrict or block wing movement), pants, and thick boots. He unbuckled them in a single swift motion, revealing avian talons.

"How do you walk?" Peter said, getting a better look.

"The same way you… oh right. Yondu had mentioned you're half-a. Your feet are not taloned?"

"Uh-uh." Peter shook his head, feeling like he was missing something important.

"This might be a problem…"

"No it ain't," Yondu cut in, handing Peter a small bag. "Glad I saved yer measurements from that… ahem… other job." Peter opened it, to a pair of shoes ending in stylized talons. Unlike the pair he wore… then… these were functional, digging into the earth below him easily as he walked, but looked plastic, like a pair of specialty sports shoes.

O'acca cocked his head. "Those are usually for people who are partial amputees; frostbite can hit our feet quite hard. Good to see they have other uses." He opened up the inside of his own boots to show a hard lump inside. "Those of us that do a lot of walking wear shoes like these so we don't hurt our feet or scratch indoor flooring; they also detach easily if we need to take flight."

"So I have to wear shoes over my shoes?" Peter asked, nose wrinkled. He didn't even think lacking talons would prevent him from flying. Keeping his balance in them wasn't easy- there were three claws at the end of the shoe that scraped the ground, and a fourth underneath him that was like a stiletto heel or a large cleat, except it bent quite flexibly with his own foot. Excellent for gripping into the ground, a branch, or grabbing something mid-flight… not so good for walking.

"If you want to be able to fly on a moment's notice- yes. You try walking quickly or long distances with a claw under your foot. It isn't comfortable. These provide the necessary cushioning for long walks or running. We're not really designed for that, as you can feel."

Peter lifted a foot, flexing his toes, the plastic claws bending and flexing with him. "Eh, had worse. So, what do I do?"

* * *

O'acca watched carefully as Peter, despite feeling like he'd fall flat on his face, positioned himself almost horizontally to the ground, talons digging deep into the soil and the only things preventing him from toppling. He bent his wings as he'd watched O'acca do, flapping them a few times in anticipation.

"What are you waiting for, Peter? **_Go_**."

Peter simultaneously pushed with all his might against the earth and flapped hard, doing everything to catch a draft.

He didn't even realize he'd closed his eyes in fear until he felt tears running horizontally across his face.

Opened. Looked down. Freaked out at the toys below that were the Guardians and Yondu. O'acca must have taken to the skies after he'd taken off.

"Enjoying the view?" O'acca asked, over the comms clipped to Peter's ear.

"I have thruster packs," Peter replied honestly. "So, used to it. Just not used to being up here under my own power."

"So no vertigo, that's good. Don't flap so much, though. Once you've got a draft, ride it or you'll exhaust yourself."

"Thanks, man."

"I thought I'd need to work with you some more. You ain't bad, kid."

"Kid?"

"You've only grown wings in the past year or so yeah? You're a kid."

"Touché."

"Hey, you've basically got the hang of this. There's only one more thing you should learn, but we should save it for tomorrow."

"Why?" Peter asked, as he dove in low, flying doughnuts over Groot's head before climbing altitude again. It **_was_** just like using his thrusters to move in three dimensions of space, just under his own body power.

"You're going to be **_sore_** tonight, kid."

"I don't doubt it."

* * *

The seven of them sat around a campfire Groot and Rocket set up between the Milano, O'acca's nimble trader ship the Bad Boy, and the Bloodbath, one of the Eclector's one-man skiffs. Yondu grilled meat and fish, leaving Peter's and O'acca's shares rare.

"I still don't like eating raw meat," Peter grumbled. "Fish… fish I've gotten used to. But I don't really like it if my dinner bleeds."

"Trade?" Rocket asked, holding out a skewer of grilled fruit.

"All yours, Rocket." Peter said, as he swapped kebabs.

"Hey, Rocket, right?" O'acca asked, calling him over.

"What's it to ya?" he replied with a bloodied grin from ripping at the cube of yak meat with his jaw.

"Can we practice on you tomorrow? Lifting you while flying, I mean."

Rocket blinked. "Wait, I thought liftin' summat, even my size, would break a bone in ya."

"If I lifted you with my **_arms_**, yes."

Rocket looked from O'acca's hands, grasping the stick of meat, down to his feet, out of his boots and stretching his talons open and shut like a trap.

"Flarg no, man, I ain't some sorta quarry."

Peter swallowed a piece of charred fruit and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "Well, it's your loss, man."

"Huh?" Rocket asked, quizzically.

"Think about it. I wouldn't break skin- what if you wore something with grips? Suspenders could work, right?"

"A proper harness would be better, but, flying, with our talons, we can lift about 40 or 50 kilos. More with proper practice. More than enough to lift you and weaponry."

"Yeah," Peter added, shaking his half-eaten skewer at Rocket. "Can you imagine dive- bombing some of our enemies on a mission? Or being dropped into a compound safely, instead of from the Milano?"

Rocket frowned, ripping off another bloody cube of almost-raw meat. "I'll think on it."

* * *

Rocket sat in his workshop that night, modifying one of his battle suits. A built-in parachute was just a good idea, dammit!, he'd told Groot.

Groot just smiled, handing him grommets, PVC cloth, and other supplies, as Rocket worked in silence.

* * *

Peter realized giving up his thruster packs wasn't a good idea. He couldn't exactly jet around in space, or in tight indoor spaces on his own locomotion, and was modifying the supports on his packs to attach to the ridiculous shoes-over-shoes. But O'acca was right, the boots over the talons did provide support, and he was surprised how easy and painless it was to walk in them (and how difficult it was without), and kick them off if he needed to make a quick getaway by air. He flexed his foot, the teal prosthetic plastic talon opening and closing with his movement.

After crafting the new supports, and putting the boots and thrusters on, Peter looked at his handiwork. Not too heavy, not unbalanced.

He pulled the boots, then the talons off, wiggling his bare toes, free from their confines, and picked up one of the thruster packs.

He may have decided not to give up his own thrusters to Rocket, but a promise was a promise. He returned to the tiny workbench in his room, pushed aside a disassembled prototype blaster he'd been working on, and got to work making a copy of the device.

* * *

O'acca met Peter on top of the Milano the following morning after breakfast.

"Two more things to practice, and then it's just refining this stuff on your own," he said cheerfully.

Peter yawned; it was **_far_** too early for this shit. He wanted to punch whomever thought up 'early bird catches the worm' right in their smug little face.

"Using your talons, and flying from a hard start. We'll start with the latter," O'acca said, stretching his wings and slipping off his shoes. "A hard start is easy, it's just frightening the first few times. Run, jump, and flap until you have a good draft. You **_do_** need to jump off of something, though. We're too heavy to do a hard start from the ground without the taloned push-off."

O'acca walked to one side of the ship, squatted and spread his wings, and began to hobble-run to the edge, jumping off and flapping hard, but focused. Peter watched him dip a meter before catching a draft, soaring back into the air, just like their ground start from the day before. Except, Peter realized, if he fucked up, he'd be a tangle of broken bones or worse. Peter gulped. He pulled off his own boots, and attached the thruster packs to leather straps below the knees, just in case, walking awkwardly on his shoe-talons and copying O'acca's suicidal jump.

Thankfully, he didn't need his thrusters, but the fact they were tied to his legs did make him feel a little better as he soared up and around the three ships, diving down to their campsite, landing neatly.

Rocket trotted towards Peter, wearing a harness with a parachute, and carrying a dumbbell simulating the additional weight of one of his guns. He looked down at the plastic claws on Peter's feet, still not entirely on board with the idea of being carried through the air. "Ya break skin and I **_will_** shatter every bone in your body, y'hear?"

"O'acca's doing it first," Peter replied. "He's the expert. If you don't feel comfortable with him carting you around, it ends there. Oh, and," Peter added, "Before we do it, I have something for you. Both to say thanks and also to cover your butt." Peter slipped off the talons and ran barefoot back into the Milano, sliding out with a small pack of electronics.

"These **_aren't_** for sustained flight planetside, but you can wear them in space for about two hours or so, or help you soften a fall or make a long jump," he said, holding out the tiny thruster packs to Rocket. "They should clip straight to your munitions pouches, and these'll sync with your cybernetics, if you want them to, so you can activate them by thought."

Rocket looked at them for a moment, before greedily swiping them from Peter's hands, clipping them in place.

"Makes me feel a bit better 'bout bein' prey for ya idjits, I guess," he gruffed, but his elation was unmistakable.

"Go run out to the field and show me how it's done," Peter said, smacking Rocket lightly on the shoulder as Rocket ran to the practice spot on all fours.

* * *

Carrying Rocket with his talons was **_not easy_**, Peter thought, breathing sharply through his nose and concentrating hard. He swooped down low, releasing Rocket just off the ground, and Rocket tumbled as he'd practiced, holding the dumbbell out in front of him like a gun.

**_"WHO'S GONNA DIE TODAY?!"_** Rocket joked, screaming, pretending to shoot imaginary enemies after being dropped.

Peter flapped down next to him in the field, sighing as he stretched out his wings.

"I'm going to be dead tomorrow…" he mumbled. "I was already sore this morning. Should have taken the day off."

"Poor baby," Rocket mocked, then saw Peter wince as he folded his wings behind him. "Uh, sorry. I couldn't imagine how hard that was for ya."

"No big," Peter replied, as he took the talons off, and walked alongside Rocket back to their campsite for lunch. "Just more practice over time, is all."

"We can set up the engine room as a sauna again if ya need it. Honestly, I was plannin' on doin' it for me anyway," Rocker said, lightly elbowing Peter in the shin.

"That'd help."

Peter flopped onto the ground, while Drax passed out plates of vinegary egg and fish with some root vegetables.

"O'acca, think I'm done."

"You should rest a few days and keep practicing again on your own," he replied, pointing his utensil at Peter as he spoke. "And wear those rocket things, just in case."

"Planned on it."

"Also, here, from Yondu. Well, from me, technically, but Yondu paid for it," O'acca said, stepping over to Peter and handing him a small, plastic perfume bottle.

"You can't spray yourself, but I can- if you ever need an escape. I'd suggest this afternoon, and letting your body heal while you're off somewhere else. If it's just for you, this should last about five hundred uses. How quickly you need to call me for another bottle's on you. If you don't want to pay me cash, I'll accept an even trade, since I can sell yours too. And don't use it more than you need- it may be safe, but you'll eventually be immune to mine, and there really aren't too many of us who've left home."

"Thanks," Peter said to O'acca, looking over at Yondu, who was conveniently digging face-first into his own lunch.

"And thanks, asshole," Peter added, aiming his comment directly at the Centurian.

"Don' care if you're Terran, rat, or bird, or 'nythin' between," Yondu said. "Yer still my boy. Don't'cha dare forget that now."

Drax nodded, Gamora smiled.

He wasn't a Retribe, not by birth or culture. He was Peter Jason Quill, a Ravager.

He may not have been born with wings, but he'd certainly been born to **_fly_**.

* * *

Big shoutout to the Guardian Kinkmeme and the anon who requested this prompt! I'm not really a fan of PWP or smut, but there were a whole bunch of awesome prompts over there like this one, so if any of you writers have writer's block, go check out the Livejournal- there might be something that catches your interest.

Thrusters may now be over, but want to read more of my work?

I have twenty-six **_(!)_** one shots, seven posted on their own (**_Nesting_**, **_Anatomy Lesson_**, **_Toddle_**, **_Truth_**, **_Ship Repair_**, **_Squish_**, and **_Order Me Something Strong_**) and the remaining nineteen in a collection (**_Nova, We Have a Problem_**) ranging from original Guardians stories with Vance Astro and Yondu to the 2008 run with Mantis, more MCU, and everything in between. I'm sure you'll find a short to enjoy.

On top of that, I have four other chapter stories, one complete, and three in progress:

Finished:

1\. **_Mirror House_** is based off the prompt "After-effects from the Infinity Stone: Something like Power (incarnate?) flowing through you [Peter] and 3 or 4 people has to do something weird I would think." It's eight chapters of the Guardians learning how to use a new power they've gained from contact with the Stone, and was really fun to write.

In-Progress:

2.**_ The Hunt_** is my first fic, and still being written, it's slow going due to its puzzles.

3\. **_ReN_** is only one chapter and on hold, I'll be posting the entire rest at once (or on a set schedule once it's done), since the plot for it is quite tight. This one is going to get dark, and it's a hard M for a reason (violence, mostly).

4\. Lastly, I really, really want to plug **_Risky Business._** Yes, it's a Rocket/Gamora fic, which may be a turnoff. I know a lot of you guys ship Pocket, and for some reason, Rockmora gets a LOT of backlash. But if you like my work, give **_Risky_** a try! An absolutely **_amazing_** writer, somelittlemonster (he only writes on Archive of our Own, go look up his stuff), and I are working on it as a pass-along story. We leave each other with crazy cliffhangers that the other person needs to write themselves out of without breaking continuity. We're 40,000 words in and have had only one continuity error so far, and a minor one caught quickly at that. If you like my work **_at all_** (which you obviously do, coming all this way and finishing the story, **_thanks_**!) give it a try, even if Rockmora isn't something you'd consider reading.

* * *

Whether you're a first time reader or follow all my work, thank you ALL. Seriously. **_You're awesome._**

Lastly, with two of my five ongoing fics finished, and one of the remaining three a pass along (so I'm writing only every other chapter with quite some down time in between), **_I'm looking for some new ideas._** Prompts are always welcome, whether they're a crazy action crossover or fluffy Pocket. I take **_all_** suggestions, so long as they're not smut/PWP, but I may take them in an interesting direction (someone asked for a wingfic, I wrote **_Thrusters_**, for example). And if you give me your name instead of just being anon, you'll get credit, too.

* * *

Here are some prompts I've received:

-Rocket joining SHIELD (**_rejected_**) (I've turned this down since I don't know enough about SHIELD to write it properly, so if one of you wants to take a stab, please do)

-Rocket's Origins, MCU version- FOUR different people requested this prompt (**_accepted_**) (Planned, as a multi-chaptered fic- I already had this in the works, using some stuff I started in the **_Nova_** one-shots, so the remaining few chapters to make this a separate story should be pretty quick)

-Peter being augmented/experimented on (**_unsure_**) (still on the fence on this one- I need a good idea or hook… probably won't happen unless I can think of a plausible reason for it and make it more than hurt/comfort. I like my longer fics to have some kind of plot.)

-Rocket breaks into prison… to break Groot **_out_** of prison (**_accepted_**) (I already have an outline for this one, too. Will be a fun one-shot, titled **_Diplomatic Immunity_**)

* * *

**_Again, I can't thank you enough._** Thanks for reading and enjoying.

Go out there and keep being awesome!


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